


Straddle the Line

by Sevent



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottoming from the Top, Cock Warming, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Gore, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Roach Judges, Scent Kink, Sex Pollen, Size Difference, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22336480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevent/pseuds/Sevent
Summary: "Geralt’s pupils are like black pits, the bright, unnatural yellow in them lost in their bottomless depths. It’s disconcerting. He seems out of touch. Drunk even. Jaskier can readily accept that, going by the slow, lethargic sway of the witcher’s head."Or: Geralt hunts a wraith and things go just a little wrong, in the sexiest of ways.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 217
Kudos: 4853
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, wiedźmin





	Straddle the Line

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all are just overwhelmingly kind and supportive. I was sick this week so I couldn't post this sooner, and you bet your tuchus I'll write a sickfic next after my pain. 
> 
> For now, enjoy smut!

In the valley of a wretched mountain, far enough away from human settlements to be of no one’s concern, a wraith beats the shit out of one Geralt of Rivia. 

Battling the wraith is part of his duties as a witcher, even if it isn’t working out in his favor this time around. The specter is strong, relentless in the defense of its home—a decrepit, sunken prison with rusting riches inside. 

He is not concerned with plundering the place, not for himself. A wealthy lord of some name Geralt isn’t bothered to commit to memory recently acquired these lands and he is willing to pay the witcher good coin to rid him the trouble of the wraith. The problem with wraith-hunting is that they are _intangible creatures_ who do not tire. Not for hours, not for days. 

And they bear a special sort of hatred for sword-wielding trespassers.

“ _Fucking—_ ” the witcher dodges a blow to his head, his ear a hair’s width away from being sliced off by a clever spectral blade. His hearing isn’t saved from the grating _screeching_ that follows hot on his tail. “Shut the _fuck_ up!”

It is just his luck that the damned thing’s soul knows proper swordsmanship. Must have been a soldier, caged within the cells of the domain it protects. That, or it lived the life of a devout sentinel and now, even in the afterlife, it continues to guard the prison grounds.

With a bout of force—and concentrated amounts of annoyance—, Geralt casts an _Yrden_ sign on the ground and steps back with a grimace. The magic is potent. What’s left is to lure the specter in with the most effective method known to witchers. Insults. 

“Is that it, you bloated shitstain? You’re slower than a cooked snail! Give me something to _sweat_ over.”

It works like a wonder, the trap ensnaring its prey in a circle of tangibility and sluggish movements. The witcher is finally in a position to slay the ugly fucker. 

His silver sword lands true and a spray of mist and black essence spreads over crushed grass, the spirit collapsing in on itself with a final gurgling shriek. In its death throes, translucent spittle spews out of its mouth, straight onto his clothes. Geralt’s head pounds. That will not be the end of it. Only for the wraith’s manifested hatred and pain. There is still a corpse to find, mutilate, and burn. 

From a safe distance, a cheery voice pipes up, “That was absolutely disgusting, Geralt. It _oozed_ all over the place.”

Jaskier pats his perfectly clean clothes down and comes up to the witcher to scowl in his face. There is not a drop of said ooze on him. Geralt sighs and cleans his sword on his trousers, which makes Jaskier cringe all the more. 

Another problem with wraith-hunting is that delivering proof of slaying one is difficult, what with it being a _ghost_. That is what the bard is here for, or at least, that is what he _volunteered_ for when they met by chance at the lord’s court. To be a witness to the slaying. 

Geralt told them both that it was unnecessary. He works better alone. Neither of them cared. And so here they are, the witcher covered in wraith-snot and Jaskier pointing out each and every stain before sidestepping it. 

“ _Jaskier_. Stop talking. We need to go inside.” Geralt raises his head to the sky like a prayer as he grabs the bard by the collar to drag him towards the entrance ahead. Jaskier objects to everything, slapping Geralt’s hand off of his rumpled neckline, which is a weak effort to get him to let go. Geralt drops his iron grip anyway. 

“Ugh. I bet there’s more of that—that _phantom mucus_ , if that wraith lives down there. I _hate_ it. This is the worst thing you’ve put me through.” 

Geralt looks at him, incredulous. “Really? The worst? This,” he points at the state of his own clothes against the bard’s, “Is practically my _‘minty fresh’_. What, are you scared or something?”

Jaskier crosses his arms defensively. “I am _not_.”

He does not sound very convincing. Geralt grins. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll shield you when it starts _oozing_ again _._ ”

“Oh, put a cork in it.” The bard bounces his palm off the witcher’s bicep, and he’s trying very hard to look upset with Geralt’s teasing tone. The slight wobble in his pout betrays his attempt.

It draws a proper smile on the witcher’s face. Ordinarily, Geralt would not care for the trivial worries Jaskier entertained out loud to fill the awkward gaps between meaningful conversations. He was not prone to chitchat in the slightest, but making fun of the bard was so _easy._ And Jaskier always responded in kind, with his own cultivated way of speaking. Like a pompous bird with its feathers ruffled. 

They fall into step together, the witcher leading the way down a slope. 

The prison before them is a marvelous work of stone masonry partially exposed to the surface. Age has not treated it well. There is only one way in through a broken gate, its wooden parts splintered and rotten to a severe degree. Geralt has to tear it off its hinges for them to pass safely. Past the gate, stairs wind down to a collection of caved-in chambers. It has been many years since this edifice saw any visitors. In all likelihood, it is a relic of an old war Geralt doesn’t remember—if he was even alive for its time. 

Geralt continues into the depths of the prison, searching for signs of a wraith’s body. No matter its time, it would still be untouched by rot, as if trapped in an eternal sleep. 

He can sense Jaskier hesitate to follow behind. Looking back, Geralt blinks some of the dust out of his eyes and taps the bard with a soft touch. It visibly catches the man off guard. The light must grow dim, human eyes would find the corridor uncomfortably dark. 

“What—did you find something?”

Geralt huffs. The hope in Jaskier’s voice is matched by trepidation. “You don’t actually have to follow me everywhere. I can do this part myself.”

“But that defeats the purpose of me coming with, does it not?” Jaskier tries to meet his eyes in the darkness and fails, though in the next second he manages to grasp the witcher’s arm. “Besides,” he goes on, “It makes for an interesting section in a ballad, should I write it down. What do you think? _Let me tell you how the Wolf—_ ”

“Shut up, no singing.”

There’s a whine threatening to peek from Jaskier’s lips, when Geralt clasps Jaskier’s hand with his own. It’s better, he says, should the bard trip or bump his head. 

Jaskier’s grip tightens. Other than a faint hum, he’s blessedly quiet as they descend.

The prison stretches for more than Geralt expects. For the most part, he maps a straightforward path in his mind. The rooms they pass do not cut so deep into the stone as to be a maze of any sort. They are plain cells, many of them inaccessible because of debris. 

The stairs end in a large chamber with ruinous pillars, an area that breaks off into one last corridor, straight ahead. The air is stale. Streams of daylight poke through the ceiling, illuminating some of the weathered details on the walls. Geralt finds no difference with or without the sparse light. He would still have his excellent eyesight to depend on, but it is fortunate for Jaskier’s sake that light penetrates so deep into the prison through the crevices aboveground. 

None of the cells they’ve encountered contained any signs of bones or upturned earth. Dusk will come soon if they dally too long, which is never a good thing to do with the wraith’s body still unburned. Geralt can only assume they will find it beyond the narrow hall, in whatever final room awaits them. 

As they get closer, the witcher notices the strange tangle of vines clinging to the walls. It’s unnatural, how they arrange their roots into the tight space, ignoring every other surface but the passageway. He tests the air with his nose. The smell of damp earth is overpowering, but among it, he detects a hint of something sweet, something thick and cloyish to the point that Geralt wants to sneeze. 

Once he catches that scent, it is near impossible to ignore it. 

“Um, Geralt?”

He’s rubbing his nose to free himself of the smell, a gesture which is apparently worth inquiry. Geralt snorts. Actually, literally _snorts_. “That plant, smells weird. I don’t trust it.”

“Well, alright. But I don’t think we can avoid it.” 

He’s right. The vines barely allow room for one person to cross. 

Geralt sighs through his mouth. Naturally, he cautions to go first. Jaskier is happy to stand back for this part of the adventure, watching as Geralt pushes some of the leaves aside. 

“Are you sure it’s not allergies? I know plenty of people who get sensitive about flowers.”

“I don’t get allergies, bard. Besides, vines don’t—fuck!” His arm snags on a complicated knot and he stumbles sideways all of a sudden. Quick instinct has him wrest his other arm for support, but in a confined space with no sure grip, every move is a clumsy dance for balance. 

In the struggle, his face smacks into his own tangled limb and Geralt curses every sacred thing under the sun. The sweet smell hits him again. This time, he feels it right against his tongue. Ripe like mulberries. 

Geralt tears through the vines with a blast of magical force. It works, for the most part. Though he does flop gracelessly onto the other side. 

“Ah, Geralt?” Jaskier sounds distressed, and a lot like he’s getting closer. “Are you—ow, _ow_ —are you good?”

The bard is scooching up right behind him with a touch more finesse. The vines are kinder to him, even as he earns a couple of new tears in his bright blue jerkin. 

“Fuck, it’s fine.” Geralt’s pissed, sure. Maybe earned a bruise or two that will be gone by the time the sun sets. It’s nothing compared to his usual. 

Jaskier still hovers over him, a worried expression clear in his face. He’s staring intently at something in the witcher’s face. 

“Are you sure you don’t want that checked?”

Geralt frowns. He touches his mouth and winces. Without realizing it, tiny thorns had cut into his upper lip. It bleeds worse than it is, and he tells the bard as much.

For a second, he wonders if the vine is poisonous. It would top off his day’s luck if it was. But other than the familiar sensation of split skin, he’s not aware of anything off-putting. 

“Just ignore it,” he tells the bard as he wipes his chin clean. His tongue weighs oddly thick in his mouth. It’s the smell, he knows. The sickly scent he can’t get rid of. Not after rubbing his entire body over the culprit plant. 

The witcher puts it out of his mind once he takes a good look at their surroundings. It’s a round chamber filled with rotted shelves and moth-eaten carpets. Expenses for comfort, which is an unexpected discovery in what is supposed to be a glorified dungeon. It’s...weird. Geralt inspects the collapsed table at the center. Broken glass crinkles under his boots. There’s a faint powder over the wood that resembles diamond dust. 

The room is not unlike a mage’s den. Which makes him doubt the purpose of his surroundings more and more. Lord what’s-his-face might have been generous when he suggested the label of _‘prison’_ to him.

Jaskier seems to catch on quickly. It helps that he’s been subjected to a witch’s whim before, and the signs are right there for him to piece together. 

“Ah, funny symbols I recognize. Did they have a mage here? Was that common among old prisons?”

“For some...yes.” Mages have been involved in the affairs of man for generations now, so it is not so surprising they would have taken part in the more despicable aspects of war. For those in charge, it meant easier and safer methods to prod the truth out of prisoners. Torture can become quite a hobby for the powerful. 

But this doesn’t feel right. A witch nest, in a prison? For this chamber to be center stage, the reverse is more likely. A prison _in_ a witch nest. 

“I can hear the gears turning in that big head of yours.” 

“Shut up, I’m thinking.” Or at least Geralt is trying to. He’s close to figuring something out, something about how the air sticks to the back of his throat and his medallion hums low against his neck. There’s a nook in the room, off to the side. It draws his gaze in. 

With a pinched expression, Jaskier watches him move toward the secluded corner. He’s not about to interrupt the witcher’s work, but with each passing moment an uneasy feeling builds in his gut. Geralt runs fingers through his hair, and maybe the man can’t feel it through the leather, how his glove comes away with sweat. It is clear to Jaskier’s eyes, even in the awful lighting.

Jaskier has never seen him sweat. 

A faint copper smell pierces Geralt’s bogged senses. He goes into a vigilant stance, knees bend and silver sword firm in his grip. Slow, careful steps draw him closer to the niche corner. Behind him, Jaskier is making some alarmed noises but he ignores it as his pupils expand in the dark to paint a clearer picture. 

The nook houses even more of those bothersome vines. A dozen tangled extensions with that disgusting sticky scent from before, and as he looks down into a bed of purple leaves, the room begins to turn on its side. But it’s not the room, it’s _him_ , his sight, twisting like vertigo after one too many pints of ale. Geralt has to hold his head just to make sure he’s not actually spinning by some magical spell dormant in the chambergrounds. It’s not, it is most definitely coming from him. 

There’s something sick _in_ him.

Under the leaves, there’s a corpse. The wraith body. Blood gathers in its lips. The air grows cold. 

“ _Geralt—_!” 

Geralt whirls around to see the bard clambering on the floor, pulling himself away from the dark pit rising in front of him. An amorphous thing made up of twisted arms and flayed skin curls out of its depths, a wraith yet reforming from the cursed ether. It stinks of rot and something inexplicable, something that adheres to all beings that cross over from that otherrealm beyond the veil of death. An infestation that normal men are not meant to know. 

He turns in a blink to the corpse and growls as his eyes dip under the strain of his newfound sickness. It’s not a soldier. It’s the _mage._

More blood drips from the dead sorcerer’s mouth, sign enough that the ghost has begun the process of materializing again. 

“Geralt, would you kindly hurry up there with your witchering— _it’s oozing,_ you said you would shield me from _oozing Geralt—!”_

“Shut up!” the witcher shouts back as he chops off the cadaver’s head and stabs his sword into its chest cavity. He has to kneel for balance, which brings him closer to the vines and their reeking smell and the more pieces he hacks from the corpse, the brighter the leaves become until his mutated eyes ache from the pulsating light emanating from them. 

He’s never been nervous, his heart doesn’t beat fast enough to allow it, and yet somehow, _somehow_ his hands have started to shake. Beads of sweat fall from his brow, down into bloodstains and glowing veins. Behind him, Jaskier panics, and his screaming loosens a visceral bout of _rage_ inside him. If that creature touches him—just lays one loathsome ghostly finger on him—Geralt is going to _lose_ it. 

Jaskier was never meant to be in any actual danger. He will _obliterate_ that wraith from existence before it comes to that.

Finally, Geralt positions the head between the body’s legs and he stands—stumbles out of the alcove, out of its wicked magical grip. He lights it all up with a fiery blast of _Igni_. 

A horrific, deafening shriek reverberates through the room. It’s the true death throes of a dying wraith, and it is something to behold. There is no escaping the sound. Geralt blocks his ears and still the screams cut through, echoing madly between the walls and inside his brain.

The growl that leaves him is _feral_.

“Fucking— ** _shut up_** _!”_ Geralt’s voice rasps over the wail, and a deep strain of magic shuts the creature up just as it implodes into dust. _Real_ dust, not any of that ethereal nonsense that specters pull out of their sleeves. 

In the wake of its death, the room is gloriously silent. Even Jaskier, who’s just sort of staring at him like he’s grown a second head. But he looks alright. Not a hair out of place, just spooked by the ordeal. Geralt sees his mouth move to probably say something smart, but the words are caught in his throat, and upon realizing that nothing is coming out of his lips, the bard becomes increasingly agitated.

“Ah, fuck,” Geralt raises unsteady fingers to wave in Jaskier’s face. A faint blue light shimmers and he undoes the uncontrolled witcher charm affecting his friend. “Fuck, I didn’t mean _you_.”

Jaskier recovers well, considering. The wraith is officially twice dead, and all immediate peril has been dealt with.

“Well.” Jaskier sits cross legged on the dirt, staring at the witcher. “It didn’t ooze on me after all.”

Geralt sighs. It’s all he thinks to do, other than shut his eyes and lay his sweaty forehead on the cool earth a few feet from the minstrel. Jaskier is fine. Everything is fine. 

Normally, Geralt hates any damp sensation, but on his heated skin, this feels like a piece of divinity. A welcome balm where everything else grates like sandpaper. Too late, the witcher notices his own breath has sped up. But it’s all Jaskier has been able to notice, all of the things that are off about him. 

He’s catching on faster than the witcher himself.

Jaskier is careful to not disturb his position, though he hovers close should help be necessary. “Are you...alright?”

Geralt blinks. The room isn’t spinning, but he knows that if he lifts his head off the ground, it will again. “I’m hot.” It comes out a bit dense, but Geralt is entirely serious. “I’m...I’m hot,” the witcher repeats, eyes fixed on his hand like the limb has done something remarkable to garner the sudden interest.

“Yes, I heard you.”

“No, I mean I’m _hot._ ”

“Geralt, stop repeating yourself, I understand—”

“No you don’t. Jaskier, I don’t _get_ hot. _I can’t_ get hot.” As he says it, his collar grows infinitely hotter, enough that he wants to rip it off to rub his body into the cool dirt like a snake does in the blazing heat of a desert. He wants to bathe in river water, clean himself of the sweat, and maybe in the process wipe off the infernal mulberry smell off of his armor. It’s stuffed into his head uncomfortably, right beside a vague sense of nausea and lightheadedness. Belatedly, Geralt curses the mage for whatever witchery responsible has knocked his systems out of control. 

“...Alright.” The bard gives him a gentle pat on the shoulder and—it’s funny but the touch, while warm, feels good. Stabilizing. “How about we, um, get out of here? Just forget this place, call it a day. The further away we get, the better.”

Geralt couldn’t agree more. 

Slowly, he rises. First on his knees, then on two splayed feet. Evidently, the effort is too slow because Jaskier takes initiative and helps him halfway to standing and Geralt starts full-blown _dripping_ with fever. 

This close, Jaskier looks a little pink himself. Geralt’s eyes follow the patterns in the bard’s clothes to where it breaks and develops new shapes, where mud stains become the frayed ends of loosened thread. The blush spreading over the bard’s face is quite charming, but the reason why it is so escapes him. 

“You know what, I’m feeling a little sick myself.” Jaskier didn’t need to say it but he isn’t one to overlook the obvious. Geralt hums. The vibration it generates feels nice inside his ribs, so he hums again, low to his ears. “...Geralt?”

Geralt tries to say something about rushing, but all that comes out is a grunt, cut short. It’s like his voice is trapped. He’s breathless and growing impossibly hotter with every minute that passes. Can’t think past the cloud shrouding his mind. Being inside the bubble of Jaskier’s helpful arms is keeping his thoughts tame. 

He’s not sure when or how, but they’ve crossed the threshold of the narrow pathway and have shuffled onto the stairs, which is the part that’s officially stumped them. Geralt’s face is busy trying to crawl into the bard’s neckline in a primal search for relief from the terrible, foul smells of the cave, the soil. From the hint of fear in Jaskier’s sweat. 

Geralt has known Jaskier for long enough now to have memorized his scent. It wasn’t conscious on his part. One day, after weeks of butchering necrotic fiends for less than a goat’s worth of copper coins, he’d walked into a tavern for a meal and recognized the smell of shoe polish and pine rosin that clings to troubadours after years and years of carrying a string instrument. That and lavender oil. It was a scent all Jaskier’s own, and coming to that realization—that somewhere inside that shithole of a town was one merry, familiar face—released all the tension Geralt wasn’t even aware had built on his sturdy frame. 

It was like coming to Kaer Morhen for winter, when the world is as distant as a dream and he can just be Geralt. Not Geralt of Rivia, the monster hunter, just _Geralt._

“Ah, Geralt, come now. Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Geralt’s pupils are like black pits, the bright, unnatural yellow in them lost in their bottomless depths. It’s disconcerting. He seems out of touch. Drunk even. Jaskier can readily accept that, going by the slow, lethargic sway of the witcher’s head. 

Jaskier hadn’t been joking when he said that he too felt sick. It worries him that Geralt is visibly experiencing something much, much worse. So he lifts warm fingers to his friend’s cheek, a gentle touch full of endless concern. 

It does seem to wake up and center the man. Geralt starts explaining for the bard’s benefit. 

“This place is...This was a lair, not for men, but that...” He starts explaining—but he feels so _warm_. Geralt loses his train of thought, jumps between focusing on the rabbit-beat of his heart and the searing touch on his jaw. It’s like Jaskier’s palm is branding him, like a _cow_ fit for market. His eyes are rolling back into his skull as his teeth involuntarily mouth at Jaskier’s wrist. _“Fuck—_ what, what was I...?”

He is met with such unending patience from the bard, it sends him into another wild search for reason inside his brain. A sequence of order that makes sense. None of it works. None of his meditation techniques to control his breathing, to empty his mind. His thoughts loop back to _hot. Warm._ Too warm. Uncomfortable. And yet.

He’s nosing at the bard’s palm now, hopelessly drowning in the heady leftover scent of lavender oil there. That, it seems, cuts through the fog. The reassuring scent. It brings him back to the realization that he’s pressing the bard against the wall with more force than strictly necessary. 

“Geralt. You said _‘lair’_ last. A lair for?”

And Jaskier sounds surprisingly composed for all of what’s going on. Like he knows something is chipping away at Geralt’s brain and he can forgive the witcher’s odd behavior. 

“Shit, the—wraith thing. Vines.” Something scratches against his ear and it is a _wonderful_ new feeling that makes his skin tingle _._ “Magic person. A, what’s it called...spell...Feels good.”

“You call this _‘good’?”_

In all honesty, once Jaskier fixated on the witcher’s odd motions, once he really _listened_ to the soft, unintended sounds Geralt was making, all thoughts sputtered to a halt. He feels rather dumb, because in hindsight, _why_ would Geralt be scraping his nose enthusiastically against Jaskier’s collarbones, his gloveless hands, his _anything?_ The man has never been particularly liberal about touching the bard, quite the opposite. 

He thinks quickly to his own growing fever. How a sorcerer might have powerful aphrodisiacs in place as countermeasures for unruly visitors. They seem to be a sex-obsessed lot, or at the very least, entertaining orgies every other day of the week. 

_Feels good_ , the witcher says. Jaskier takes a moment to breathe, to contemplate the weight of one impossible _horny_ witcher and what he’s going to have to do about it. What he’s willing _to_ do for him.

“Oh, just—nevermind.” The next step is still to get out of these musty stairs. 

Geralt is not having such a great revelation himself. There are already far too many novel sensations coursing through his body. Like his speeding heartbeat. That is actually quite terrifying to feel, how blood is rushing through his lungs and his head at an exceptional speed. He looks at Jaskier with some dread blooming in his gut. He is going to _die._

The sky crowds overhead in an instant. They’re outside again. Geralt falls to the ground in a heap and it is only when there’s pressure against his crotch that he realizes how fucking _hard_ he is, straining against his codpiece and he pants into the grass blades rubbing against his cheeks, caught in a spiral of highened sensation. 

“I think I’m—having a heart attack.”

Jaskier sounds strained above him. “You are not. I know what’s happening.” 

“Then—what‚ _fuck,_ ” he’s flipping over onto his back and Jaskier takes that moment to press his hand onto Geralt’s clothed dick, and his body reacts like a magnet and a firecracker all at once. He swallows dry, smothers a moan threatening to break out. “Fuck. _Fuck._ ”

It’s the only word left in his vocabulary. His mind has forgone all higher process beyond rationalizing that he’s hard and heavy in his trousers and that’s Jaskier’s hand rubbing persistent circles there. Right where his cock throbs in tandem with his pulse _._

He’s not sure how to voice it but his armor is cooking him alive from the inside out, and if he doesn’t take it off in the next minute he’ll be sure to burst into flames. Hands paw uselessly at the catches in his armor, and it seems to draw the bard’s attention because there’s an extra pair of hands helping him rip it all off. 

“Jaskier,” he can say that much. ‘Fuck’, ‘shit’, and _‘Jaskier’_. That’s his repertoire of words. A veritable poet. 

“I know you can’t really speak sanely like this but I need you to understand,” the bard is talking and it sounds like a whole step too complex for him right now, but he stops scratching his undershirt off, long enough to have a semblance of consideration. “I...is this alright? I would—I want to help, Geralt. Is this helping?” 

He grows impatient with the lack of _anything_ happening when he’s _dying_ for those dexterous musical hands to keep playing him. Well enough to utter a decisive, “If you don’t touch me right this instant, I am going to kill you.”

At that, the bard sounds jovial. Delighted, even. “Well, when you put it like _that._ ” 

Geralt growls like a feral animal hearing the tease in his voice—it spells a _bratty_ promise—, but it tapers off into a trembling breath when finally, Jaskier shuts up and does what he professes to be the best at, with eager hands. They take a moment to squeeze Geralt out of the trousers, the last barrier left to overcome, and as he lies there naked and trembling, _still_ he sweats. Hair sticks to his forehead, a halo of white for his flushed, panting face. But it’s better. It doesn’t feel like he’s trapped in the prison of his own clothes anymore. Just in Jaskier’s closed fist stroking even and careful over his hard flesh.

A second hand squeezes his chest and—that’s, he doesn’t expect that to feel good. It doesn’t, but then nails drag welts into his skin and his back rises in an arc, his thigh muscles clenching around air. 

Geralt tosses his head and lets loose a guttural sound, something that shakes inside his ribs and leaves his throat feeling raw. He’s so hard it _hurts,_ and the slow, steady touches the bard is giving him are kindle to the flame blazing inside him. His hands have closed into fists on the grass, the knuckles white from the inhuman effort it is taking to keep them there. To keep from tearing into Jaskier like a wild beast. 

And Jaskier must see him struggling to keep himself under control, because he stops stroking him completely and stares at the witcher’s misty eyes. 

“Let go now, it’s alright Geralt. I can take it. You need to let go.” 

_No_ , Geralt hastes to deny it, to remove himself from _need_ and _desire._ To not let himself turn into the lustful thrall that the spell demands. But it’s _Jaskier_ , who he trusts despite every bone in his body screaming to stop this madness from escalating to a place where they can’t come back from. Jaskier, who looks at him with such peace and such disarmed faith that Geralt scrambles with all his senses to remain distant. And he’s failed miserably at that mission, because here he is, pulling the deft fingers of an open hand into his mouth. Keeping them there. Coating them in his own scent, with fine strokes of his heavy tongue. And Jaskier looks at him like he’s the most fascinating creature alive, with his own tongue peeking out from between his lips like he wants to replace his fingers with his mouth.

They are going to end up smelling like spent and oils and dirt and something inside Geralt, the part that’s all him—not this sickness— _thrills_ with that thought. It becomes so easy to let himself fall into the gaping pit that is the magic coursing through his blood. All because Jaskier is the one guiding him in.

Geralt sighs, Jaskier continuing his ministrations with a satisfied nod. Harsh digits dig through his spit-slick lips and Geralt simply sucks in. They fall into a rhythm, him lurching into the bard’s dual touch as the bard alters his pace between rough and sentimentally tender. Geralt would rather he forget his reservations. He is still wearing his bright clothes which rub _deliciously_ over Geralt’s sensitive skin every few shifts, at the cuffs of his wrist. 

Then Jaskier does the unprecedented. He lays between the witcher’s thighs, slotting their bodies perfectly together so his stomach presses Geralt’s exposed cock down onto his moving hand and the witcher reels his neck back, panting. His body feels divine. Hot fire licks up his belly and builds into a pool. The head of his cock is dripping onto his quivering stomach.

“Jaskier—” Geralt calls his name too quiet to hear over the blood pounding in his ears. Everything is both too much and not enough. The bard’s weight jostles with each of his upward thrusts and it is sending him into another plane of _existence_ , how they fit together like puzzle pieces so perfectly like this. Geralt’s hips falter and convulse from an overpowering wave of heat at his core and he comes on Jaskier’s fingers, on his beaten jerkin and the fine thread shirt which peers through the messy gaps of unfastened buttons.

Geralt’s heart flutters as he sags on the ground. Jaskier hums, his gaze hungry. “Good. Good boy.” Something about those choice of words invites a growl. Jaskier pops his fingers free of Geralt’s mouth and runs soothing circles over those slick lips. “How are you now?”

Geralt grunts. Jaskier’s weight is still on him, but he is far from complaining. It feels good. Like bracing himself on a sound pillar. “Better. You...”

His voice drifts off before he can finish thinking his sentence through, and Jaskier has already begun shushing him. “We don’t have to talk about it, it’s—”

“No, shut up. Let me think.” He grabs the bard by the shoulders, keeps him there between his thighs. “Fuck.” 

“Yeah...I can feel it too.” 

Jaskier means more literally, how Geralt’s cock hasn’t softened. At all. His mind is clearer, but there’s a liquid trail of molten gold where his spine normally is, and it is driving his hips to seek relief, again. His gut clenches like a vice, like something inside him throbs with an unfulfilled _need._

“Alright, let me try something.”

Then the bard’s body lifts off altogether and that is not what Geralt wants. That is far from what he needs, when his cock is screaming for his touch, for the friction his hands provided. But then Jaskier sinks on elbows and knees, down where his thighs are, and his breath hits warm over Geralt’s length and it takes everything Geralt has not to scream and just thrust up into those parted lips—

But Jaskier is ready for him. He’s got one hand wrapped around his cock again, right at the base, and he’s guiding Geralt in without restraint and a very astute part still working inside Geralt’s head points out how _Jaskier_ is also suffering very much from the magic of that cavernous place below and that might be making him reckless.

Because Geralt is a big man. On the occasion he takes a lover, he’s careful, spending more time than what a quick fuck is supposed to count. But Jaskier takes to him with disregard and it is such a sight to see him swallow him as far down as he can—which is an impressive feat, even when it’s just about half his length—that Geralt’s hips stutter with little abortive movements. 

Jaskier’s mouth is its own kind of magic. Mesmerized, Geralt watches his cock disappear in through the bard’s lips, his spit leaving a glistening trail on his hot skin. He has to touch, has to press his thumb to the side of Jaskier’s jaw where he can see it stretch wide to take him in at all, and fuck if that doesn’t send him to an early grave, the furtive look Jaskier sneaks up at him will. The man is absolutely _relishing_ this, in seeing how he’s working the witcher up to an uncontrollable, inconsolable mess. Geralt parts his lips to call him something mean and Jaskier—the fucking _prick—he sucks_ in that second and Geralt’s eyes _roll_ into his skull out of their volition. He’s breathless, panting, sucking in air through the gaps in between clenched teeth, watching blue eyes through the curtain of his eyelashes. 

Then Jaskier pulls back completely and Geralt _whines_ because no, he’s going to burst, not yet—Jaskier links his fingers in a tight ring at the base of his cock and that feels both like an illuminated decision, and a full cease of progress. 

“I’m just—alright, sorry, I’m going to swallow.”

Geralt doesn’t understand. Can’t think what the fuck does Jaskier have to stop for to tell him that—he already _is_ swallowing him—but then the pressure of Jaskier’s hand grows stronger and he dips his head down to take his cock again, except he doesn’t _stop_ where he was before, he just keeps going down. Until his lips meet where his fingers are laced around him and Geralt surges up, thrusting crudely into that tight heat, the hands he had kept knotted on grass blades coming up to grab Jaskier’s head and keep him right there. 

There is no pretty way to describe how he’s fucking into Jaskier’s mouth like it’s his life’s purpose. Like they were always meant to be here, his hands clenched on the back of Jaskier’s head while the man still—impossibly—works him into his mouth. Geralt’s voice is shot, his breathing an erratic pattern that every so often releases a deep whimpering plea disguised as a curse.

That tight fist at the base grows tighter still and Geralt can’t come. He’s losing his mind chasing release, over and over, the crest grows and just when he thinks he’s going to cross the threshold, Jaskier keeps him there, on the edge. 

Geralt’s tossing his head to the side, muscles pulled taut as a bowstring. Then, as he loses his grip on the bard’s hair, Jaskier lets go completely and moans, his throat taking him in _whole_ , and Geralt comes harder than he ever has, shaking and raw even as Jaskier’s abused throat contracts around a swallow. Finally, he pulls back and rests his head on Geralt’s right hip, just to breathe. 

Jaskier looks ravished, blue eyes blown out, wet and drooping. There’s tears gathered at the sides, but he wipes those off casually, unbothered. Jaskier’s face sprouts a red blush that crawls down past his neckline, his chin sporting the fruits of hard labor. Of course he has to stick his tongue out and lap at the tip of Geralt’s still-hard cock. 

He hums, and the vibration hits Geralt right in his balls. 

“This _vigor_ part of being a witcher?”

His voice sounds so torn, it sends a hot tremor up Geralt’s spine. This close, his shaking noticeable, and Jaskier looks at him with bleary, knowing eyes. “No. It’s the magic. It’s—potent.” 

“I would say you are too but, well.” Jaskier is gentle when he grazes Geralt’s scrotum. They’d had that conversation about him being infertile already, so there was no need for him to look so _forlorn,_ like it mattered to Geralt when it didn’t. Evidently, Jaskier gets lost in his head for a second, long enough that his fingertips trail mindlessly over scars and raised skin. 

Geralt is beginning to worry that the bard’s desirous symptoms are starting to hit him hard. 

As it is, his wordiness has not yet been affected, because even after sucking a large cock down to the root, even with his own desire hot and unattended to, Jaskier still has the willpower to chirp, “Third time’s the charm?” 

Geralt has to palm his face from the frustration. “Fuck me.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Wait.” He opens his eyes to Jaskier plopping his ass on his abdomen and throwing his ruined clothes off, a sight that is not altogether unwelcome. But Geralt stops his little hands anyway and urges him to pay attention. “Not like this. Just—”

“No I understand. I’m...I need to,” Jaskier rattles his head to come back to his thoughts. “Oh curse the gods, I’m losing my mind.”

Geralt gives him a smile. He lets Jaskier go so he can finish undressing. Clumsy hands wriggle out the remaining outfit, and the pale, supple flesh that greets him is a jewel in the setting light. A glowing beacon, radiating warmth. Jaskier settles back onto him, his own cock thick with blood and rubbing insistently on the witcher’s stomach. 

But he is not done yet. Jaskier—terrible, brilliant, _daring_ man that he is—fights with his trouser pockets to fish out a bottle of something small and precious, going by his expression alone. 

“Ah! There.” He uncorks the cap and pours its content on his fingers. It smells of lavender oil and Geralt’s dick gives a weighty _throb,_ his memory of the scent forever tarnished with lustful implications, watching Jaskier spread the oil over his fingers and lean back to reach places Geralt can only pitifully imagine from his position. 

Jaskier seems to work quickly, perhaps even rashly in seeking his own pleasure, but his brows are drawn into a tight knot of concentration and his thighs grip Geralt by his sides with such force that Geralt, without thinking, lays his warm palms low on Jaskier’s hips, to relieve him. Slow him down so Geralt can catch up to him again. “Take it easy,” Geralt mumbles soft as Jaskier ruts into him. His head hangs between tense shoulders. 

But the bard then does something with his hands—something that looks like a twist and a punch wrapped together—and he gasps, raising himself on his knees. Just high enough for Geralt to see that he’s heaving three fingers into himself already, the voracious _beast_ , on the way to push a fourth in, and the witcher has to stop him before he spills all over them both. 

“Easy, easy.” He draws Jaskier in to his chest, pets his backside a couple of times for good measure. The muscles there feel so taut, ready to snap. Geralt grips the wrist still poised to continue its duty to reach climax and eases it out, dragging a broken whine out of Jaskier. 

“Sorry, um. I just need—I _need_ ,” Jaskier looks adrift a storm, shaking atop his frame like a boat with no anchor. 

Geralt grunts in sympathy. “Yeah, me too.” 

The bard nods like he understands, and then, as if naturally, he begins to sink. 

Geralt wills himself to stillness. He’s got a better grasp on himself now, after coming twice, but it’s not enough that his cock isn't still what drives him forward. And how it makes him want to pull Jaskier down by his slender waist to bounce him on his cock, his needy cries the best music his ears would ever hear.

But Geralt is not an animal, he is just incredibly, _desperately_ turned on. 

The tip of his shaft catches Jaskier’s ass and Geralt breathes deep. It stretches just enough to take that much in, but Jaskier goes slow. A teasing press down that he retracts and repeats twice more. 

Geralt can’t take it. There is no patience left in him. He growls a threat, callused hands coming up unbidden to snatch the bard’s behind and spread him well before his length and—for some diabolical reason Jaskier is _chuckling_ at him, the imp. 

Apologetic, Jaskier drops, the tight ring of muscle overcoming the crown and everything Geralt ever thought in his life leaves him. He is nameless, wordless, lost in the bard’s willing body. There are no witchers, no monsters. No wraiths or erotic spells. Just one enthusiastic bard and his outrageous lavender oils. 

Jaskier above him is a _masterpiece_ , rising and pushing tirelessly onto him. He is still tight around him, just on the edge of needing to pull down with applied force, just enough that he has to _work_ to fit inside. And Jaskier pants every time his body yields and Geralt’s cock slots into him again. 

The tight vice of his body keeps Geralt from going too far. It’s a madness, the bard only being able to lift himself so far. Jaskier positively _writhes_ when Geralt flips them over, him on his back in the grass as Geralt bottoms out in him. 

From above him, Geralt towers. He’s got Jaskier’s legs spread out before he starts rutting into him with abandon. Their hips practically glued together as the witcher’s weight and his shoves bore the minstrel into the ground. After spending so much time climbing and crashing, they’re both so close already. Jaskier well enough that all Geralt has to do is lean back a hunch, pound the stiff ridge inside of him and he’s gone. Body contorted into a wordless scream as Geralt keeps fucking him, keeps hammering his oversensitive body to seek his own release.

“Fuck!” It takes him by surprise, as Jaskier pulls him down to mouth at his jaw, his lips, the reddened tip of his nose. It’s messy. Even after coming, Geralt chases the climb further with a bruising grip on Jaskier’s hips. Sucks the bard's swollen tongue into his mouth and tastes his own spent. 

Jaskier croons into the kiss, spread before him like a banquet. He’s clearly past his limit, yet still, with his face screwed up, Jaskier hooks his arms and his heels on Geralt’s back. The scratch of his short nails sends the witcher over the edge, and _still_ Geralt plows into him. It’s like he can’t stop and it’s _painful_ , how another swell of release creeps up on him fast, licking up the knobs of his spine until he’s gasping into Jaskier’s flushed chest. Still rutting into him. 

And Jaskier, poor, overly sensitive Jaskier suffering his relentless charge, enlists his slick fingers to his aid. Delves clever digits down to his backside and quick as a whip, presses one into the distressed witcher, right where a sensitive mound begs for his attention. He stiffens under the touch, his cock throbbing to life for one last time. Geralt feels like he’s being wrung dry in the sun, Jaskier still massaging that spot so much so that he bites the bard’s shoulder, pleading with his body to stop, that it’s done, that he has nothing more to give. 

To say he collapses on top of the bard is putting it lightly. An ox couldn’t move him. 

They lay there, breathing, remembering themselves after everything. Jaskier absently brushes the pads of his oiled fingers over Geralt’s backside. Nothing insistent, just a compulsion to soothe the beast on top of him. Geralt hums low. He is _exhausted_.

But he doesn’t want to crush the bard, and that seems to be exactly what he’s doing, going by the wheezy sound that whistles out of Jaskier every few seconds. So Geralt flips them, him on his clawed back with the warm weight of his bard on top. 

His cock is still buried in him. It’s irrational, Geralt knows, but a twinge of fear keeps him from pulling out. He is content, his mind in a facsimile state of meditation. But doubt hovers on the fringes of his awareness, that Jaskier only agreed to share in this with him because they had no choice. Because it was better than spending a miserable evening alone writhing to his body’s whims. 

And pulling out will break the brittle peace they’ve fallen into.

It’s a few more moments of shared silence before Geralt speaks. “You didn’t need to do that.”

Jaskier shifts enough so they remain comfortably connected, but his face is visible now. 

“Do what, exactly.”

“All of, that.” All of me, he can’t say. _All of my violence and gluttony and excessive wants_. He could have torn Jaskier to pieces, to satisfy himself. He _would_ have. But the idea of hurting him physically sickens Geralt. This man who is looking at him with such an incredulous expression.

“Oh, so you were going to wait it out.”

Geralt grunts. That was the suggestion, but hearing it out loud, in that cocksure tone of his, it seems—foolish. ‘ _I want to help’_ , the bard had said at the beginning, before his mind was possessed by the fever of desire. He understood before Geralt, what had befallen him. And he still blindly took the leap with him. 

And he still looks at the witcher with such open _trust_. 

Jaskier is not about to let him forget it, however. “In that state, you were going to just rut on the ground anyway. I was _glad_ to lend a hand, you insufferable oaf.” 

Jaskier huffs and turns his face away. He looks very upset. “Hey,” Geralt grabs his chin to bring him back. “You didn’t _have_ to...”

It’s difficult to express what he means. That he can’t understand why Jaskier welcomes him, why he continues to tread alongside the witcher’s path, despite the dangers. In _spite_ of the dangers. That when presented with an assortment of unpleasant things—things like deadly wraiths, magic sex vines, and gross monster slime—he still decides to accompany the witcher through it all. 

But the way Jaskier stares at him, as if he doesn’t understand why for all the gods he _wouldn’t_ , it sparks a fire inside him of a different brand. “I wanted to. Is that bad?”

That quiet uncertainty lingering in the bard’s voice pierces Geralt’s better judgement, and he blurts out, “No,” so fast, to wipe the budding sad look from Jaskier’s face.

Jaskier blinks. One half of his mouth stretches into a smile, and it does something to Geralt’s fluttering heartbeat. He grunts, eyes closed. Focuses on getting it under control because he is _not_ dying anymore—wasn’t really dying in the first place—and there is absolutely _no_ reason for his heart to be spastic.

He rubs the drying droplets on their skin. That will become a problem if unaddressed. So Geralt assigns himself the task of cleaning up before they’re sticky for the rest of their travels. 

Jaskier winces from the whistle the witcher blows to the wind. It rings in his ears and he is quick to protest, starts to move off but Geralt halts his escape. He keeps him sitting on his softening cock, not because of preposterous fear, but because their soft clinch of the bard’s body feels quite pleasant. 

“Stay.”

“Ah.” Jaskier squirms a bit and, Geralt swears the bard’s face flushes to a rosy tint. “Alright.”

From the bushes, a chestnut mare pokes her snout into the clearing. Roach had been left untethered should they need to make a quick escape. And she had been quite happy in her patch of grass. Now she pauses on the cusp of the derelict lair, snorting loudly. She sees her two riders naked as the day they were born, tangled on the ground.

Geralt might say she looks rather annoyed. 

He calls for her again so she can’t ignore him, but the mare clearly swings her tail at his face as if resenting him. Blood and guts would have been preferred over the absolute disaster before her. Geralt pats one of her hind hooves. “Sit, Roach.”

Jaskier just sort of watches the entire exchange, disbelief written plain on his face. The mare does eventually sit at his insistence, and with her low on the ground, all of her legs tucked into her body, Geralt fetches a clean piece of cloth from her satchel. 

“To clean us both up.”

“Yes, of course. To clean _me_ up.” The bard accents this by lifting his hips slowly from Geralt’s, grunting when the witcher’s limp cock slips free. Geralt does treat him with gentle strokes. His movements pause on every new bruise that rises on his skin. Jaskier preens. The aches will last, but he finds that he doesn’t care all that much when they beg Geralt's scrutiny and attention. 

Their clothes are piled haphazardly to the side. Even with them pressed together like this, the cold is still starting to seep into Jaskier’s bones, and Jaskier truly misses having an extra layer of protection against the elements. 

But dressing up sounds like a terrible idea when he’s so comfortable above his sedated witcher. He can spare a few more minutes of lazy repose. And sadly, his jerkin is ruined, the costly, beautiful thing. He’ll mourn for that one. 

“Next time,” Geralt wakes him from the lull he falls into, his voice a profound ripple under his chest. He seems to have finished his task. “Warn me when you’re gonna suck my soul out through my dick.”

“Next time?”

Geralt hums. “You’ve never been so quiet.” 

“ _Oh_ , rude man—” He taunts the bard all while slipping two firm fingers back into him and Jaskier just _accepts_ that he’s created a new tortuous fixation in the witcher. But his insides feel _raw_ and he is not about to fuck _again_ in the woods. One long, drawn out exchange was good enough for him. They can very well find an inn before seeing the lord friend anyway. 

“I ought to spank you,” Jaskier utters like a promise, and Geralt’s pupils—which had shrunk back to their normal cat-like shape—expand back to a round fullness and, well. Maybe he’s willing to give the woods another chance. 

Beside them, Roach smacks them both with the butt of her tail.

**Author's Note:**

> Roach: really? right in front of my salad?
> 
> You can find me @the_sevent on twitter, if that's your thing.
> 
> I also caved and made a tumblr @seventfics.


End file.
